I'm half in the bag from too much alcohol
consumed in the first class section of my Pan Am clipper from New York,
and punchy from the time zone change. Queuing up to the Air Vietnam counter
to get my boarding pass for the flight to Saigon, I see a sign being posted,
“All Flights to Saigon Canceled.”

It turns out that Saigon is under air attack.
It doesn't make any sense...The North Vietnamese have never flown a flight
over Saigon during the war. Milling about the counter are the oddest bunch
of travelers I have ever seen. Spaced-out hippies with weird lights in
their eyes; soldiers of fortune with golf bags full of cargo that never
would pass inspection; wealthy Hong Kong bankers carrying empty valises;
and of course, photographers and reporters with whom I had ridden down
many dusty roads over the years.

It turned out that there had been a brief
coup attempt, one of many that had occurred in the past few years. By early
evening, our Air Vietnam Caravelle is descending through the tropical sunset,
skimming over rice paddies, exposing the bends of the shimmering Mekong
River to my eye as we drop into "The Paris Of The Orient."

APRIL 21 - SAIGON, SOUTH VIETNAM

I always forget how hot Saigon is. It's
only 7 a.m., and already my shirt is sticking to my back as I climb the
stairs to the TIME/LIFE bureau in the Continental Palace Hotel. The smells
of freshly cooked "Pho," the beef soup that serves as breakfast, lunch
and dinner for many of Saigon's residents fills my nostrils. It reminds
me of just how much I love this place. I feel as though the past three
years since my last visit have just evaporated...no presidents...no new
beauties...just Saigon...just like always.

I grab a key from its hiding place in the
bureau, and walk to a small shed behind the U.S. Embassy. Opening the door,
I see the bureau mini-moke, with its "BAO CHI/PRESS" sign taped to the
windshield. Poking around in a corner, I come across my old combat bag.
I spread the contents on the floor. Two sets of fatigues, jungle, tropical,
with "Dirck Halstead, TIME/LIFE" sewn onto the blouse pockets; a pair of
standard issue, jungle-tropical boots, with metal soles designed to withstand
sharpened pongee stakes, but useless against a land mine; a Musette camera
bag, still holding some long-since expired color film; a zipped baggie
containing malaria pills, water-purifying tablets, a couple of old cool-aid
packets, a bottle of Tabasco sauce, and a small half-bottle of Mekong whiskey;
a couple of towels, covered with red dust; a web ammo belt with harness
and two canteens; and on the bottom, my old helmet, still bearing the "BAO/CHI,
UPI PHOTOS, HALSTEAD" letters. I forget where I first got the helmet. It
was picked up on some long-forgotten battlefield. I think to myself, "God,
it feels good to be home!"

0900 hours:

I'm sitting at a table at the bar on the
corner of Tudo Street , having a "cafe-soda," when I spy Leon Daniel, veteran
UPI correspondent and an old friend. He yells at me that if I want to see
some "bang-bang" I better get my camera. I pile into his car, and we speed
toward Bien Hoa, a few miles up the highway from Saigon. He explains that
the Army of The Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) has long since ceased allowing
press to come along on any operations. Their military briefings have become
less than worthless, but because of constant pressure from the American
press, the Vietnamese Air Force (VNAF) has decided to run one helicopter
lift to what appears to be the last stronghold of the South Vietnamese
forces.

In the preceding month, nearly all important
South Vietnamese strong points have collapsed: First Ban Me Thout and Pleiku
in the Central Highlands; then Hue, where nearly all the South Vietnamese
Marines were trapped and destroyed on the beaches while awaiting naval
evacuation; then DaNang, which had been the key American air base during
the war; then Nhatrang; and now, as North Vietnamese forces rushed south
down the highways, the only things holding them back are the inability
of their tankers to keep pace with fuel demand, and one ragged ARVN battalion,
the 18th Division, that is doing its best to hold the door to Saigon shut.
It's one battalion against the combined weight of an overwhelming NVA military
machine barreling down the road to Saigon....and that is exactly where
we are going.

CLICK
ON THE PHOTO TO SEE AN ENLARGED IMAGE

18th Division troops
at Xuan Loc.

Battlefield debris
at Xuan Loc.

1100 hours - XUAN LOC OUTPOST, NORTH OF
SAIGON

Our aging Chinook helicopter kicks up a
wall of red dust as it settles on a highway. Everywhere we look there are
refugees, many of them have walked hundreds of miles to get to this point
where they hope to find safety. ARVN wounded call from stretchers for a
drink of water. Two jeeps barrel toward us and the drivers yell for us
to get aboard, as incoming rocket rounds scream overhead.

In his command tent, General Le Minh Dao
whips his swagger stick against his neatly pressed fatigues. "We will hold
this location," Dao barks into a field telephone in Vietnamese. Upon seeing
us, a gaggle of reporters, photographers, and a TV crew, he gives us a
big thumbs-up. "I don't care how many divisions the communists send against
me! I will smash them," he yells as if for our edification.

He ushers us outside his tent where roughly
a dozen North Vietnamese prisoners, stripped to their underwear, are bound
like hogs waiting for the slaughter. Leon Daniel tells him that based on
what we know of North Vietnamese movements, his situation appears to be
hopeless. Dao becomes furious. He insists his men are in total control
of the town. But neither Leon or AP's Peter Arnett will back down.
He insists that if things are so good, we should be allowed to look for
ourselves. More incoming slices through the trees around us. A bunch of
us start to feel as though it’s time to go. But now, the general has taken
Leon's bait. He brings up the jeeps, packs us in, and we careen down the
jungle path toward Xuan Loc.

CLICK
ON THE PHOTO TO SEE AN ENLARGED IMAGE

North Vietnamese
POW's at Xuan Loc CP.

VNAF chinooks land
on road at Xuan Loc.

1200 hours - THE TOWN OF XUAN LOC

Our little group of press cautiously moves
up the deserted street. The general has taken the lead, swinging his swagger
stick. He is calling out in Vietnamese but there is no answer. There are
bodies lying in the road. Smoke is still rising from their charred remains.
The town is a mess. But other than Dao's voice there is not a sound to
be heard.

Slowly, heads begin to rise from foxholes
on the sides of the streets. Wide-eyed ARVN rangers look at us in disbelief.
Others simply have a thousand-yard stare. We get the picture. This place
is in bad trouble. Gunfire erupts from up the street. An alarmed aide runs
to the general and points toward the tree line. Black-clad figures seem
to be flitting between the trees…or is it my imagination?

Dao suddenly decides it’s time to go. Our
jeeps spin around and barrel toward the helicopter landing zone, as the
aide barks instructions into a radio. Two Chinooks touch down, filling
the air with red dirt. As we begin our sprint toward the helicopters, the
ARVN who had followed us from town overtake us in a mad dash for the Chinooks.
Two ARVN soldiers that had been carrying a wounded soldier, drop him.
The soldier in the rear runs over the wounded man. Leon Daniel goes berserk.
He runs after the soldier who had run over the wounded man and cold-cocks
him. Other troops are flinging themselves on the rising helicopters. Some
fall as the choppers rise into the air. In less than a minute it is over.
The helicopters are slipping into the distance. The wounded moan. Other
soldiers fire toward the helicopters. We look around. The entire small
contingent of press are still on the road. It begins to appear that for
us, the war may be nearly over.

CLICK
ON THE PHOTO TO SEE AN ENLARGED IMAGE

ARVN troops scurry
for choppers.

Troops and press
left behind as helos lift off.

1500 hours - OVER XUAN LOC

The Chinook that we thought we would never
see again rises into the air, carrying us out of Xuan Loc. Dao evidently
felt responsible for our safety. He had called in his personal command
helicopter to get us out, and has it landed in an area where it would not
get mobbed. As General Le Minh Dao says good-bye, tears begin to well in
his eyes…"I do not want you to die with me...if they give you a chance
to return here, you must refuse. Please tell the Americans you have seen
how the 18th Division can fight and die. Now please go!"

As our helicopter clears the treetops,
we look north, and as far as the eye can see, dust is rising from movement
of armor headed south. None of us ever sees the general again.